


these wounds we do another

by LittleBlackGoldfish



Series: Peace Between Us [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-18
Updated: 2019-04-22
Packaged: 2020-01-16 05:02:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18514438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleBlackGoldfish/pseuds/LittleBlackGoldfish
Summary: Arya Stark and her sister Sansa don't much talk these days. Generally it's not much of an issue because they're across the sea from one another, but at Robb Starks wedding it might present an issue. Actually, them talking might be the issue. There are bound to be issues that's for sure!





	1. Jon & Arya

**Author's Note:**

> Mentions of abuse within this work. No specifics, but it gets alluded too.

Winterton's South Station for the King's Line was strangely dead. Jon mostly sees it in the morning and the evening, rather than midday in the middle of the week, so maybe he's not the best to judge.

Still it's almost eerie to see it nearly empty. His watch tells him it's barely been two minutes since the last time he looked which means he's only been at the station for a total of ten minutes; the train isn't late yet, there's no reason to worry, even though she hasn't responded to a single one of his texts since she landed in White Harbor.

Probably her battery died. Or she just turned it off.

Jon's cousin has never been great about technology, which is honestly kind of baffling given the rest of her family seem to be giant nerds, of varying stripes and kinds to be sure but usually pretty tech savvy.

His Aunt and Uncle are better with computers than he is and he knows a sizeable chunk of the family's wealth is invested the North's small but burgeoning tech industry. Probably Jon could live off his share of it for the rest of his life, not that he thinks he would want to live that way; gods knows he's met some brats like that he couldn't stand. It honestly baffles him how a continent the size of Westeros could have survived all those millenia ruled by some of the families he's met, though looking at the history maybe it didn't exactly.

Thank god for democracy, and at least somewhat competent government.

Shaking himself free from his thoughts Jon glanced up and finally spied his cousin across the empty expanse of the station; she was larger than he remembered her, Arya would probably always been twelve in his head, a scrawny little girl perpetually looking up at him. She was taller than him now, though only just.

He watched her for a long moment, taking in the woman she'd become. Where her sibling all had their mother's red hair and blue eyes, she was like him, Stark through and through, with black hair and grey eyes.

That was where the similarities seemed to end though. Somehow she'd never lost the tan she gotten in Dorne nearly five years ago, how that was he didn't know because Braavos was farther north than Harrodon where he'd grown up and he was as pale as could be. It suited her, lent her an extra air of fierceness somehow, not that she'd ever been lacking that; out of all the extended Stark brood he could most picture her as the sort of savage warlord they would've been once. 

However little she looked it at the moment clad in dark jeans, sturdy leather boots, and a white t-shirt emblazoned with some cartoon character he didn't recognize. The heavy winter coat tucked under her arm was either really old or very new, Braavos surely couldn't get cold enough to bother her.

Arya spotted him then and a moment later they were crashing together.

"Jon!" he laughed, answering her crushing embrace with his own.

Lifting her for the swing that followed was no small feat, he kept in shape for his job but she was it seemed almost all muscle and near enough his height that he struggled.

"Put me down!" Arya laughed. "Put me down!"

He did, his back and shoulders immediately singing in relief, and stepped back to get a second closer look at her. Smiling back at him, not down at him, that extra inch and half wasn't _that_ much, was the same long faced girl he'd raced against and hid from three months out of every year until we was eighteen. Yes, taller, darker, in better shape than Jon himself was and undoubtedly very much grown up but the same person all the same.

Though…

"The hair is new," he said. She'd had it long hair these last couple of years, something about it looking better in performances, but it was pulled back into a tight bun now and partially shaved on the right side until just above the ear.

"One of your coworkers get too close with a sword?" Jon half joked.

Quite honestly he worried a bit. Her tomboy attitude and voracious appetite for sports when she was younger had somehow translated into Arya ending up a performer with a troupe where they swung around archaic weapons at each other for audiences. It was supposed to be a sight, very well choreographed and from her insistence very thoroughly practiced, but Jon couldn't help but worry.

Even blunted, half a pound of steel was dangerous.

Arya laughed softly at that, "Everything is blunted edges for group work," then after a slight pause. "I like the way it looks."

Reaching back to touch the shorn part of her head, Jon thought it must be recent if she wasn't used to it. He found it a little odd himself, it was the asymmetry of it he thought, but somehow it suited her.

"Looks good on you," he said and then when he glanced behind her and didn't see any other luggage. "Come on, I'm parked just outside."

He wondered not for the first time how she managed it, to travel so well with just the leather bag she had over her shoulder. Even he couldn't go anywhere without at least two full bags for more than a few days and she was going to be staying for at least a week. Someday he'd have to ask her.

"Mom'll probably freak," Arya sighed, probably imagining the reaction already.

Jon made a noise in the back of his throat, "Fret a bit yeah, but it won't be nearly as bad as that time I bleached my hair."

"Hah! Auntie Lya lost her shit," Arya said. " 'Course that was completely justified. Looked bloody ridiculous, like some creepy movie baddy. "

"Hey!" Jon spat indignantly. "I was trying to connect with my roots! Dad's family all look like that."

That set Arya off laughing again, "Shut up! You wanted to look like what's his name, Melo-something, the one from that movie with all the silly overwrought kisses in the rain and the weird time-travel plot."

He shoved her, Arya wasn't wrong but he preferred his version all the same.

"Get in," he said as they finally reached his car. Her tongue flashed at him, and he laughed, glad to be past the awkward spot.

It had gotten his mother to lay off at least, though it had also gotten him a lengthy trip down to Dragonstone months later to tour the historical sights. That part he hadn't liked so much and Jon still wasn't sure if his mother had known he'd been lying at the time or if it had been a sincere effort to offer him a connection to that side of his family. Maybe she thought he'd enjoy it because he used to love reading the _Lions of a Flock_ books, which involved a lot more plucky younger gryphon riders setting out on adventures and a lot less in the way of detailed lineages of the ruling house of the Seven Kingdoms.

Jon still credits those books with his joining the forestry service, half the time he's out in the Wolfswood, all alone amongst that nearly pristine wilderness, he imagines himself on some fantastical adventure exploring some untouched land never before seen by man. It helps that it's still sort of true in the case of the Wolfswood.

Had he stayed in the south he knows wouldn't enjoy his job nearly so much, nothing south of the neck is nearly as wild as half of the North still is, for all that it's modern population is more inline with the rest of the country. Maybe Jon didn't grow up in the North, but Mom is fond of saying that it's in his blood and by now he's pretty convinced that it's true.

It takes a few minutes of being on the road before Arya speaks up again, her face turned away from him so that he has to think a moment before he's fully grasped her question. Four years is a long time to be away from a place, he imagines Winterton must almost seem like a new city.

"So… How's everyone? Rickon know where he's going yet next year?"

"Not yet, that I know of, though he was mentioning something about Skagos last week," Jon double checks that the next lane over is clear before he starts merging. "That I think has more to do with wanting to scare your mother so she'll let up the pressure a bit."

Arya snorts. Fat chance of that.

"Bran should complete his Masters sometime next year and he's broken up with Meera again," glancing over to his cousin Jon finds her still staring out of the window at the city passing by, her leg bounces slightly. Right.

Arya has to know most of this already from her mother's monthly emails detailing every last development in the Stark's lives, gathered meticulously by way of patient needling and iron willed demands from the famously tight lipped Stark children. So what is it that she actually wants to know, but won't ask about? Jon doesn't know, for all that they sometimes feel like his brothers and sisters there are parts of them even he doesn't know. Maybe he can make a guess, though.

"Robb is obviously deliriously happy," he continues after another moment; starting with the easy stuff, he figures, don't let her think she's been too obvious. "Also completely and totally freaked. He woke me up at three this morning in a fit over the color of his undershirt."

Jon waits.

"Blue, to bring out his eyes," he says. "Or at least that's what he said his stylist said. Just in case you wondered."

That gets a short laugh out of Arya as she glances back at him to roll her eyes, then it's back to staring out the window.

"I think the everything is only starting to hit your mother, she's been hovering around Rickon for the last two weeks," he's been kind of annoyed on the kids' behalf. "Must've realised once he's gone it'll just be her and your dad. If she didn't love Tyene so much I think she might've forced your brother to call the whole thing off, or tried at least."

He can see the corners of her mouth twitch in a smirk, but only just.

Jon continues, "Sansa is still working with _Wild Hearts_ , says the Clans might finally be ready to lease some of their land. If it goes through they'll try moving a tribe down with their mammoths next year."

If he hadn't been watching for a reaction, Jon's not sure he would have caught the white knuckled squeeze Arya gives her own knee or the silent breath she huffs out before consciously relaxing it.

"Uncle Ned has been a little caught up in the new project," Jon keeps going. "The one up on Cassel street, I think it has something to do with electronics recycling?"

He keeps up the steady patter for a few more minutes, circling back around to Arya's other siblings, not Sansa, a couple more times before they lapse back into a comfortable silence. At least he thinks it's comfortable. It's comfortable for him, but Jon has never been the best at reading people or noticing the subtler emotional cues they give off, which has led to a fair share of his breakups, so he definitely doesn't try and guess what's going on inside Arya's head at the moment.

Nearly seven years on and the full details of the fight between the two sisters still isn't totally clear to him. He knows that Joffrey was at the center of it, knows that it had to do with the breakup, but Jon also knows that it didn't stop there. Things are quieter these days, less yelling and hitting involved, but not really better.

The aftermath of that was one of the few times he was glad he never had any siblings, Arya and Sansa managed to drag just about everyone into it at one point or another. Even his mother somehow. Things were so bad that everyone was glad when it went from fighting to cold shoulders and careful indifference. Part of Jon worries that they might spoil the wedding, might go right back to the worst of it and turn a celebration into a disaster, and then an instant later he feels ashamed.

He wants to sigh, wants to press the issue. But he doesn't, instead he keeps his silence and keeps on driving.

After the wedding, after the reception, when he can be sure they have the time. He'll take her hiking or something else suitably isolated where he can maybe get Arya to tell him what exactly happened between her and Sansa.

*

*

Coming back home is nerve wracking every time she does it. Many of Arya's happiest memories are in those walls, but she always seems to become thirteen again; feels less like the twenty-five year old woman she is and more like the insecure little girl she was.

It fucking sucks.

Still it'll be good to see everyone. She hasn't seen Bran or Rickon except in pictures online in three years, hasn't even met Robb's soon-to-be wife. Her mother and father call her every few months to pester her about coming back but it's basically never a good time, except when it is and she makes excuses anyways.

And… 

Well, and.

Looking up at the sprawling three story mansion, she wonders at how they all turned out so not completely fucked up. Arya has met enough spoiled rich brats to be thankful and knows it basically all down to how their parents raised them and that that's down to how their parents raised _them_.

So yeah, nerve wracking.

She almost jumps at the sound of Jon slamming his  car door closed behind her, that's how deep she was in the weeds there, wrestling with her metaphorical demons and shit. She hears him crunching up the gravel path behind her, waits just long enough for his arm to come up to give her a 'comforting' side hug and then she steps forward.

A little mean, she knows, but he deserves it. Subtle Jon is not, and Arya just knows he's going to press her about shit later with the way he kept glancing at her during the car ride. Fuck it, he won't do it until after the wedding.

Her feet carry her up, up, up the stone steps and all the way back home.


	2. Sansa & Arya

Planning for the wedding had started months ago; Sansa, her mother, Tyene, and Robb had all gotten had all gotten together of dinner and started hashing out every detail. Binders had been filled with all the various details and back up options in case any could not be obtained, no details had been left undiscussed.

And yet still, somehow things kept cropping up.

Which is how the two of them, Tyene and Sansa, found themselves tucked away in the second floor sunroom with binders lying open across every available surface. It is as close to an encapsulation of Sansa's teenager years as she can imagine; all floral prints, pastel colors and rich furniture fit to wile away afternoons reading trashy romance books in. Even with the overcast sky it is well lit, owing to its many windows that also provide a view of the sprawling city beyond and overlook the small lawn to the back of the house. The sunroom has always made an excellent place to work, isolated enough from the rest of the house to provide quiet but with enough visual stimulation and space to stave off restlessness.

For a time at least, spending most of three days in it is a bit much. Nerves were fraying.

Tyene's posture relaxed as she stabbed at her phone, her voice losing the unfamiliar bite it had only moments before. Staff at the manor had called earlier to let them know that one of the florists had delivered their order a full day early, luckily they space to store them in a temperature controlled environment, otherwise it might have been much worse.

Yelling had been in order.

"Fuck me," Tyene groused as she flopped back into the large chair opposite of Sansa, her tightly curled black hair only just starting to have enough heft to actually bounce as she did so. "I just yelled at that poor woman over fucking flowers. Dragging Robb off to elope won't even help will it?"

Eloping had actually been the couple's first instinct, but mother wouldn't hear of it and Sansa was agreed; Tyene had only relented when she'd heard how minimal Northern wedding ceremonies were. You said some words in front of a heart tree, exchanged one cloak for another, and it was done, bar the paperwork. It was what came after that dragged on.

Honestly it was only the first bit that really grated, the Public Reception that followed the ceremony itself promised to be a headache. A touch over one-hundred and fifty guests, most of them either press or public officials from throughout the North with the rest a smattering of business acquaintances of the family.

Sansa laughed, "Not a bit."

After would come the fun bit, with drinks aplenty, merry song, and dancing.

Four hundred plus guests to be hosted at Stark Manor along the White Knife some seventy miles from Winterton, which promised to be a sprawling affair; taking up the main ballroom and its two adjoining lounges while also spilling out onto the attached outdoor patio and the grounds beyond. Staff for the various needs of the event could not be covered by the Manor's small permanent employees, though it was often enough rented out for various events they were variable in needs, and so more had to be hired specially.

Which of course meant dozens of things which still continued to go wrong in minor and not so minor ways. Such as the angry email that current glared back up at Sansa from her phone, caps locked title and way too many exclamation points and all.

"Merin Ambrose, from the _Rose's Raven_ , is pitching for an invitation to the presentation again," she said, setting aside the offending device and looking to her soon to be sister-in-law. "Nevermind they don't even have staff up here, somehow because I went to school with Margaery Tyrell for a hot minute they think they've got an in. Why that should matter for my brothers wedding I don't know."

Another notification caught Sansa's eye, but it was only confirmation of her flight details for next week so she turned back to Tyene and smiled fondly at the grin plastered across her face. She and Robb loved each other in a way Sansa'd only ever seen in her own parents and she knew that soon enough the both of them would make wonderful parents to a handful of beautiful children. And what beautiful children they would make, Tyene might've been a model if she hadn't gone into the air service; which was how she and Robb had met in the first place.

They were both out now, Robb for a few years and Tyene for all of two months, and ready to start their lives together for real. So much about the two of them that sits at opposite ends, that it's honestly surprising how alike the two of them are in truth. From Tyene's dark sun-kissed skin and Robb's pale northern complexion, to the soft lilt that flavors her speech and the rough brush of their northern accent it's hard to imagine two people less alike at first glance. Yet both prefer acting to patience and have a blunt honesty that borders on rude at times, the well of warmth and love both harbor in their hearts is perhaps the most significant connection.

Sansa knew she wanted that for herself someday, but given her dating history was content to wait a while longer before really looking for it. Beside work kept her busy and satisfied and when it didn't she had friends aplenty.

Sometimes mother gave her imploring looks, but that was usually only when she was really feeling the impending loss of her last 'precious baby' Rickon. Father would be happy enough if she never dated again, he'd never liked any of-

Looking at her mother sometimes really was like looking into a strange time-warping mirror, Sansa thought, as Catelyn Stark lent in through doorway.

"Sansa," she said meaningfully. "I'll be leaving shortly to make sure you father gets back on time tonight."

It wouldn't quite be fair to call Ned Stark a workaholic, but he did enjoy his projects and had been known to get a bit lost in them; Sansa wasn't sure of the specifics on this one but she knew he'd been diving into it pretty heavily these last few months. Nodding back to her mother, Sansa motioned with her phone.

"We're still dealing with some things," she says.

Beginning to turn away, she only just caught the expression on her mother's face, half expectant and half wary trepidation before a soft sight issued from her lips.

"Your sister has arrived, Jon is getting her settled just now," her mother gives her a look both long and intense.

Really she should double check her flight information, getting out to the Fist is always a bear and she doesn't want to be wasting the money if she can help it. If things work out she'll be having even more long nights pretty soon; organizing the trek down from the deep Frostfangs, corralling enough independent boat captains to move them all, and there'll be a dozen other things she'll have to figure out on the other end of the journey. Maybe she should talk to Jon, he's in the forestry service, he might have some contacts or at least some useful experience.

Maybe she should send another message to the Flints? They've been a bit quiet lately and even though they were the first to express a bit of interest it can't hurt to-

"Sansa," Catelyn's voice is sharper this time and it's enough to force her to look up.

"We still have to make sure the musicians know not to turn off at Bennard," there's something in one of her eyes, but she resists the urge to reach up and wipe it away. "And I still want to call the Manor to make sure everything is ready for all the cars, really mother there's still much to do. I'll see them in a bit."

At the last she looks up, shooting her mother a quick smile before turning back to her phone. Finding the email address for the musicians will take a bit as Robb was the one who actually found them, but Sansa is sure she has it here somewhere.

"All right," her mother says, giving Tyene a bright smile. "I'll see you both later."

And with that she's gone.

Silence settles over the room again as Sansa scrolls through dozens of message over the last few weeks, looking for a particular one where Robb's chosen musicians confirmed their booking. Was it two weeks ago or three? At this point she really can't remember, but she thinks there was 'red' somewhere in their name, or maybe it was 'rent.' She's about to open her mouth and ask when she spots it, then it's just a few moments to hurriedly scrawl out a brief message warning them of the peculiarities of of the local roads and she's done.

One more potential issue headed off.

"What was that about?"

Glancing up to find Tyene's brow drawn together in clear concern, Sansa hesitates a moment before answering, her fingers itching for another task to tackle, another crisis to handle, however minor. The nape of her neck itches hotly.

"Nothing really," she says, but the other woman just raises one perfectly sculpted, and freshly, eyebrow at her. "My sister and I, we don't exactly get along, really it's just silly sister stuff. Mum likes to worry is all."

"Sansa, _sa mielli_ , you know you can tell me anything?" Her eyes are full of concern, wide pools of sympathy and Sansa loves her just a little bit more in that moment.

What she says is, "Of course. Honestly, it's nothing, we can behave for a week."

Near on seven years, she and Arya know how to navigate the complicated waters of family gatherings without stepping on each others toes too much; some stilted conversation and a lot of avoidance goes a long way. Maybe it shouldn't, but Sansa is too old now to twist herself into knots over her sister's self-absorbed resentments. Once that wouldn't have been true but the have enough practice at it now.

"Oh honey," Tyene whispers softly as she cross the space between them in a few short steps, leaning down to press a kiss to the crown of her head.

In that moment Sansa wishes Tyene were her sister instead and herself the younger rather than older one, but she shakes away that thought along with the prickling heat that scatters down her arms. She's grown up a lot since she was eighteen, nineteen, twenty, learned a lot about herself and the world; made a place for herself that no one can take away and started to do some real good. Fantasies never did her much good, and more than some harm, she doesn't make that mistake anymore.

"Here," dark hands tilt her face upwards to meet Tyene's steady gaze. "You just remember that I'm here for you, for whatever, ok?"

"O-of course," blinking hard, Sansa answers with her own slight smile.

It's just a week. A week isn't much really.

Anything else is cut off by the ringing of the bride's phone again. Resisting it's pull for a moment, Tyene keeps her gaze firmly on Sansa, before whisking herself back over the the other side of the room and snatching up the offending piece of technology. It's up against her ear with nothing more than a frustrated grunt, and Sansa can clearly hear a voice on the other end rapidly yammering away before the older woman even has a chance to get out a greeting.

"...ma...ma...Ma!" that seems to halt whatever stream of speech was coming at her. "Put her on the phone…"

That's all Sansa makes out before the conversation descends into incomprehensibility as it switches over into pure Greenblood accented Rhoynish.

*

*

Arya has to turn on the lights as she goes, illuminating familiar walls of dark ironwood. Though she's been home for hours, all the hours of travelling caught up with her almost as soon as she arrived and so she slept through the last four hours and it's now early evening. Dinner will be on in just a couple more, but after the last few days she's pretty sure she'll still be hungry.

The kitchen is dark, clean, seemingly unused. Probably someone was through earlier to tidy up, it never stayed clean for long when they were younger, then she remembers that most of them don't even live here anymore and she hasn't seen any sign of Bran or Rickon at all. Sure she was sleeping for most of that time, but the house is quieter than it would be with either of them in it.

Suddenly the room feels lonely. And she wonders how often it actually gets used; her mother and father must still use it for cooking their own meals, eating just the two, or three if Rickon isn't too distracted by friends, of them at table at the other end. A powerful longing wells up in her to go back to those days herself, all of them sitting around the table at night.

Almost as it comes it goes. It wouldn't be the same, Arya knows, probably was never that idyllic anyways.

Plenty of food is tucked away in the fridge, bread and fresh fruit sit on the marble countertop and now that she's actually looking at it she can see the signs of use; scattered crumbs and the way some of the knives don't sit fully in the block. Actually finding something to eat is a bit of a chore, mostly because she's not sure what's in any of it; without daily practice she can't afford not to pay attention to what she eats. Not if she's going to dive right back into the full shows in a week.

Definitely none of the takeout that looks braavosi, half of it's likely to be fried and the rest drowned in so much sauce it'll just sit heavy in her stomach, besides she has enough of it when she's actually in Braavos. YiTish cuisine was usually more balanced, and she'd seen at least a box of it near the front, which turned out just to be a half eaten serving of rice. She's almost given up when she spots the container of leek soup tucked to one side, heated up a little it would settle Arya's rumbling stomach without fucking up her regimen.

Ferrying it back to her room might be a bit awkward, and she'd have to be careful about heating it up too much, but she didn't really feel like eating in an empty kitchen either. So two minutes later saw her shuffling out with a warm container of soup  held in two hands and a spoon when balanced atop it.

Which is of course when she runs nearly smackdab right into her sister.

"Sansa," Arya said unnecessarily just as her stomach growled again.

"Helping yourself, I see," was her sister's reply, mouth cocking into a cold smile

Ignoring the jab Arya edged to one side and slowly began making her way past Sansa. Food was only one of the many ways in which the two of them differed, Sansa had always had a harder time keeping off weight and been more concerned to try anyways; though mostly that was because she hadn't done any sports when she was younger, Arya had done everything her parents would let her.

Some of her older sisters friends had once commented that she ate like a horse, which had somehow meant they called her 'horseface' for the next ten years. The nickname hadn't made much sense to Arya then, even at eleven, but nearly anything said by a crowd of fourteen year old girls could be made to hurt when it was said right.

"How was your trip?" Sansa asked.

"Um, long," Arya said, blinking as she tried to orient herself in the conversation. "Had to leave right off a performance yesterday.

"Will your, ah, troupe be alright without you?" her sister questioned.

"Yeah, um yes for sure, they'll be fine. I'll miss our next show, but ought to be back for the one after," she shrugged, they really would be fine without her, they'd change up the order; have Brie do an extra solo or something and no one in the audience would even note it. "Not like Robb consulted me on the schedule."

She'd meant the last comment as a joke but from the flash of Sansa's eyes Arya knew she hadn't taken it so. Another point of tension between them, from the time she was nine until they'd stopped talking Sansa had always thought Arya out to spoil everything, always running off to find their mum and cry foul if she didn't do exactly what Sansa wanted.

"What about your, um, your work," Arya said stupidly.

She knew what Sansa did. Her mother's emails went on at length about everyone's activities, so of course Arya knew. It was just what she did was so much more complicated than what everyone else did, it would have to be seeing as she'd gone to school those extra two years, which was four more than Arya had bothered with. Everyone knew not to count on her for details, her body remembered most of the hard stuff for her.

Nevermind that she remember the names of dozen of stage hands from across Essos and beyond. Or that she knew Brie's birthday was in two months and she'd already custom ordered a new scabbard to celebrate her first full year in the company.

"Well," is all that Sansa says.

Arya nods her head for lack of anything else to do and says, for lack of anything else to say, "Good, good."

One moment passes, two, then three and then Arya can feel the heat from the soup starting to slip away .

"I should go, eat this," she says lifting the container lamely, and without waiting for Sansa to respond turns away and starts marching back toward her former room.

Now there's a churning in her stomach which has nothing to do with hunger, and a prickling heat around the base of her neck that has nothing to do with the soup. Her mother's emails are still buried in her inbox somewhere, maybe she should read them, just so she doesn't make a complete ass of herself.


	3. Rickon

When his alarm goes off Rickon is already in a foul mood. He doesn't have school today, so why should he be up at such a horrendous hour? Six is not a time anyone should be up and doing anything, except perhaps shuffling back to bed after a good piss. 

It takes a moment of blearily staring up at the dark ceiling of his room before he can coherently make sense of why he's up so early; big important wedding today. Groaning out his frustration Rickon somehow manages to drag himself from his nice warm bed and shuffle his way over to his closet without falling over or giving up. It's an accomplishment, really. Once there he blinks at the two suits hanging before him for several moments, trying gamely to remember which is for the wedding itself and which for the reception later.

Was it grey for the wedding and black for the reception? Or black for the wedding and grey for the reception?

He has to shower first anyways, Rickon decides in a fit of inspiration, he'll leave figuring out which suit is which for after once he's more awake. Given everything, he's probably the last to be up.

Sure enough he can hear the rest of his family busily thundering throughout the house, the occasional shout down the corridor the only evidence as to who is where doing what; Bran downstairs cooking with dad, Sansa helping Tyene in her and Robb's room, Robb himself getting  _ something _ for his mother, and Arya in the bath closer to her room

Rickon hopes there's still enough hot water for him, there's hasn't been this many people in the house in years and he's not looking forward to cleaning himself with cold or even lukewarm water. Mostly it's just him, mum and dad, with Bran occasionally stopping by. He doesn't miss being the baby, even if sometimes the house feelings empty.

Back in his room, there was hot water,  _ just _ , he feels much more awake. More he remembers that the black, with it's simpler tailoring, is for the wedding and the grey, with all the small detailing of Stark direwolves and funny First Men runes, is for the reception. 

Gods he hates them both.

Ever time he had to move an inch in them at the fitting he felt like one of those pets rich women liked to dress up and take pictures of, he feels barely able to move without looking ridiculous. One day, that's all he has to give it, less than that even if he can sneak away once they get to the Manor.

Though maybe he can stick around long enough to get in some pictures? 

Girls are supposed to like a guy in a suit. If he'd been allowed to bring a date the entire thing might be less of a pain, but Rickon had been declared 'too young.' How the fuck exactly that made any sense he wasn't sure. In the end he hadn't argued it though, mostly because he'd seen enough of what Tyene went through to know that inviting any of the girls  _ he _ liked wouldn't have gone well at all. 

People with names like Lannister, Frey, and Manderly would whisper awful things about anyone without an old name, never mind that half of them were poorer than Tyene's family. Not that her family was poor, which was exactly his point. 

It was all so much bullshit and in another year he would be free from it, just as soon as he-

"Rickon!" Sansa's voice shook him free form his thoughts through the door. "Fifteen minutes!"

"Almost ready!" he shouted back.

He didn't even have his socks on.

*

*

Once he might've be raised within the high stone walls of Winterfell, but Rickon had only every seen its insides on school trips and one particular time with his father. Now it, or more specifically its Godswood, was where his brother would marry; in the shadow of ancient trees and by the edge of steaming hot springs, under the eerie gaze of a red-sap weeping face carved into the largest weirdwood he's ever seen.

Besides the setting, and the total absence of a Septon, the wedding is a lot like the others he's been to. Not exactly a long list, just the two before this one and he only really remembers the second with any detail; his uncle Ed's, when he was thirteen or so. Still the set up is basically the same, with two sides, two families, divided by an aisle facing the bride and groom.

Well, facing where they will be. Neither being present quite yet, which he thinks is something of a departure, but then the only other weddings he's seen having been markedly 'southern affairs' according to his father. Still, Rickon swears he remembers his sister and mother talking about the intended 'departures from tradition' and the only thing obvious to him is that Robb isn't already standing there waiting for Tyene.

Uncle Ed had to stand for what seemed like hours at his own wedding before his bride even showed up, and it's always the groom waiting on his wife in shows and weddings.

He wouldn't normally put much thought into it, but Rickon is quite frankly bored out of his mind. Bran, seated to his left, is absorbed by his phone. Probably he's waiting for some sort of message from Meera Reed, even though he's only just broken up with, or maybe been broken up with by her, whatever, it's not like it hasn't happened before. Half the time he's not sure if they're just friends or actually boyfriend and girlfriend, the entire relationship makes so little sense to Rickon that he's long since given up trying to understand it; especially with all the other guys and girls his brother has dated.

So, Bran is out as a distraction. Meanwhile Arya, who he barely seen in the last few years and mostly only hears from at hols, is so tense Rickon half thinks her joints might pop. Maybe it's the dress she's wearing? He remembers it always being a battle for their mother to get her into one.

Gods if only she and Sansa were switched around, his older sister could probably tell him a hundred facts about Winterfell and it's Godswood or the weirwoods; maybe why their sap looks so creepily like blood. But she's on Arya's other side and talking past her would be too awkward. Turning around, he wishes Jon would come sit down already, but no his cousin is off talking to one of Tyene's own cousins and if he didn't know better he might think Jon was trying to pick her up. 

Rickon does know better though, Jon has absolutely zero game and couldn't pull properly if his life depended on it. Not that he has to, girls practically throw themselves at him. 

In fact, ugh, yes, she is flirting with him.

Irritated now as well as being bored Rickon turns back around to stare out at the woods beyond with a desultory glare. He just wants this whole damned thing to get going already so they can at least get on to the next interminable part of this day. And to think this won't even be the worst of it; forget the reception, at least there he can eat and drink and sneak off at some point, right after this there's some stupid press thing they all have to trot out for like idiots.

And, worse, he's sure to be pictured standing next to Jon and any chances of making something out of that brief bit of fame will die a quick death. 

He only realizes he's slouching when Arya nudges his arm. Straightening back up Rickon shoots his sister a grateful smile, except all she does is look embarrassed.

Shuffling in her seat a little she edges away from him a bit, but only just that bit, and then tries to settle back into her seat, back ramrod straight and legs twitching like she wants to set off running. Looking past her Rickon notices that there's like three inches between her and Sansa, who is sitting calmly in her own seat idly looking forward and very carefully not looking at Arya. 

Rickon will never understand girls. Seven fucking years they've been like this, always on a knife's-edge around each other, near spoiling for a fight at the first sign of anything. Mostly they seem to try and stay out of one another's way these days. Glancing to Bran, hoping maybe for some help or a sign of what the fuck he should do, finds his brother still absorbed in his phone.

He's not about to open his mouth. Definitely not without backup.

No one ever bothered to explain to Rickon, who was eleven at the time, what exactly the whole thing was about and it'd honestly never much interested him. 

He loved his sisters, but he wasn't stupid enough to try and get between them; Arya used to fight anyone who so much as looked at her wrong, and Sansa always knew exactly what to say to make you feel like your worst just the worst shit ever.

Right about four years ago there'd been all sorts of rumors going around their school about Bran, who hadn't seemed to care, and eventually Rickon had found out where it was all coming; a girl about his age who had a long standing crush on his brother. Unsure of what to do he'd gone to Sansa, who after asking some questions had told him not to worry. At first he'd thought she meant it as some sort of 'don't let words get to you' bullshit, but barely days later the girl had come up to Bran all teary eyed, full of apologies.

He never asked her directly, but Rickon was convinced Sansa made it happen. 

So no, he's not fucking getting in the middle of them.

When minutes pass and there's no move from either of them to engage the other Rickon sighs in relief, glad that it's not going to fall to him to salvage that particular disaster. He's so relieved that he just nods to Jon as he comes back to take his seat.

Moments later the entire wedding party falls into silence and Rickon doesn't think about the tension between his sisters anymore. Instead all he thinks about are how happy Robb and Tyene look, how good they look together, and how much he wants that. Someday.

For now he thinks maybe he ought to show his cousin how its done.


	4. Sansa

Sansa's feet ached like nothing else.

Up since half past five this morning she felt like she hadn't sat still for an instant in all that time.

It's not true, she knows, but her feet beg to differ.

The hour drive from Winterton to the Manor, located on the banks of the White Knife, was a blessed relief even if she spent a third of it on the phone trying to make sure everything was set to go. Relatively few things had gone wrong so far, the caterer somehow lost one of the starters in its entirety and the musicians still hadn't arrived, they hadn't turned off at Bennard but had run out of fuel; it was being handled.

Without the Manor staff Sansa is sure it would all be so much worse, though limited the staff were enough to cover things. Setting up the main ballroom and the lounges had been done days ago, so now it was mostly an issue of getting organized to offload guests as they arrived.

Once the guests themselves actually started arriving she was back and forth between the kitchens, pantry, security, and the front entrance where she dutifully greeted as many of their "dear friends" as she could. They really are mostly close acquaintances of the family, more than a third were invited by Tyene, but somehow despite the fact that no noble has so much as ruled a village much less one of the Seven Kingdom is near five hundred years there's still a tiresome amount of politics that goes into major social functions. All that attention might have been flattering when she was younger, but it's mostly just sad to her these days.

Now with the majority of their guests having arrived, any stragglers could be left to the staff without giving insult. Still there was so much for her to do before she could afford to relax; all the appetizers were floating around by that point, but the main course still had to be prepared and that meant dietary restrictions had to be observed. Which of course needed a layer of separation in certain cases; at least three guests were allergic to part of the main dish, and a dozen others had various religious objections.

So yeah, Sansa's feet ache, but it's all worth it every time she sees Robb and Tyene, gazing adoringly into each others eyes or dancing amongst family, friends, and the oldest names in the Kingdoms.

Bran finds her in one of those moments, watching the happy couple sway gently to a slow soft song amongst dozens of other couples, so deeply focused on one another it's a wonder they haven't stumbled into anyone else. He comes up at her elbow, sipping a Dornish Strongwine from a tall glass, and watching his brother and now sister-in-law.

"They're going to make some ridiculously cute kids," he says. "Spoiled ones too."

Sansa can't stop the laugh that escapes her, an undignified snort she wouldn't hated when she was younger. Not that she really tries actually.

He's not wrong though, for all that the two have impressively frightening serious faces Sansa can't think of two people more loving and kind, more appropriate to raise children, than her oldest brother and his new wife.

There's a moment of silence between them where they each just watch the party unfolding around them. She'll give it a few more minutes before she goes to check on dessert.

"When's the last time you ate, Sansa?" Bran asks suddenly.

Even though she knows immediately, Sansa still pauses before answering him, "This morning. Dinner will be served soon though, I'll eat then."

To forestall any more good natured needling she starts to turn away, patting Bran on the arm, better to check on the kitchen now than leave it any later, but before she can make it more than a step away her brother's hands are on her arm and he's guiding her towards an open table. Gently enough, but with a force that tells her he probably never really outgrew climbing. Just graduated to better equipment. It's a testament to how tired she is that it takes her until Bran nearly has her sitting down before she protests.

"Bran," she starts.

"Stow it," is all she gets before he's got her planted in the chair, one arm enfolding her in a tight hug. "Everything is under control. Anything that goes wrong now won't really be helped by you anyways. Now, you sit right there I'll be right back."

Sansa's protests die on her lips as he disappears around the corner and she suddenly finds herself unable to muster the energy to get up, her feet crying out in relief. All at once she can feel the yawning pit her stomach has become and the dryness of her mouth catch up to her.

In moments Bran is back, a plate piled with starters and a tall glass of water in one hand while his other stays tucked behind his back. When he leans down to plate the foot in front of her, Sansa pressed a quick kiss to his cheek before taking a long sip of the water to parch her throat.

"Thank you, Bran," she said.

Holding up a finger, he gave her a quick teasing smile, "One last thing."

Whirling his hand around from behind his back and twisting it about in the air for a moment before he gently placed one of the small lemon cakes prepared for dessert in front of her.

"Bran," she hissed. "Did you steal that? We haven't even served dinner."

He laughed softly and only said, in response, "Don't worry I know the lady running this whole thing, she won't mind, I promise."

It was true, Sana found, she really didn't mind. Laughing softly she poured every last bit of her gratitude into the smile she sent him.

"All right, good," Bran said half turning away. "Now, relax, I promise everything will go off just fine."

Then in the next moment he was gone, winding his way back through the crowd to do whatever it was that he'd been doing before. She sighed and, ignoring the rest of the food, took a bite of the lemon cake. Sweetness with just the perfect hint of tartness exploded across her mouth, just as good as she'd hoped.

It took her only a few moments to work through most of the rest of the starters, leaving the greater portion of the lemon cake for after, and found herself feeling much better already.

Stomach settled Sansa turned back to the party going on around her.

Now in better spirits she could better take in the whole atmosphere, without the distraction of a dozen things she could be doing it was easier to see how well everything had turned out. Not even a quarter of the guests had found their way to the dance floor, the rest were mostly gathered around scattered tables or likely off in one of the lounges. A few perhaps might've found their way out onto the outdoor patio, but the heat lamps wouldn't have been set up quite yet so it was still likely to be too chilly.

There were names from across the Seven Kingdoms everywhere she looked, old names; Baratheons, Hightowers, Umbers, Reeds, Royces, Lannisters, and even a few Martells. Once, all those names would have represented the power of the continent, but now they were mostly just sad rich people holding onto the echoes of history.

Sansa wondered what it must have been like, to live in such an age.

Heady most likely, to have the power of life and death at your fingertips, terrifying as well, to know that one wrong move could spell your own doom. Still, nights like this were a brief window in the best of the those times she imagined and that might not be so bad.

Watching the crowd of dancers once more Sansa found her eyes, instead of being immediately drawn to Robb and Tyene again, finding a familiar figure amongst them. An unwelcome one, though not an uninvited one.

Joffrey was nearly as she remembered him, lean and tall and as handsome as his mother was beautiful. Slightly less lean these days, though his clothes did an admirable job of hiding the bit of gut that he was clearly developing, he was clearly not keeping himself as well in shape as he had when they were younger. The same carefree expression that he always worn then still graced his face now, though with age and personal experience she could see the flashes of cruelty and anger that she hadn't when they'd first started dating.

Almost he hadn't been invited. It hadn't even occurred to Robb or her mother to have him on the guest list, but Robert Baratheon was too dear a friend to her father not to invite and it would simply be too awkward, and frankly more than a little embarrassing, to somehow explain his eldest son's absence.

So here Joffrey was, dancing at a wedding nobody really wanted him at and with a girl far too young for him even though his invitation had not included a plus one.

But that was to be expected.

Joffrey really was an insufferable little prick when you got down to it. He'd never met a rule that he thought ought to apply to him or privilege he wouldn't abuse for all it was worth to get what he saw as his due.

Sansa wondered how long he'd been dating this girl. Should she warn her? It seemed the thing to do, but to do so she'd have to get her away from him and she didn't know how to do so without causing a scene. Had she brought her own date he might've been able to ask for a dance, deliver a warning for her perhaps, but she hadn't had a successful date in close to a year. Wendyll Manderly had offered, but honestly at the time she hadn't wanted the pressure even just as friends.

Well, she would have to keep an eye out and hope an opportunity presented itself, or connive some way to get the girl's name or number and send her a warning later.

None of the men she'd dated after Joffrey had been anywhere near as bad. Most had been perfectly nice, even outstanding in some ways, they'd just always been more interested in other things; their careers, other women, other men, her money. Or they were just assholes. Not the kind of arsehole Joffrey was, but just regular arseholes, full of themselves and their own self-worth.

Well, there'd been one scare, but it had never gone beyond a quick coffee date. Nothing was for sure, but Ray had had creepy pale eyes that Sansa had like at first, when she'd only seen them for a moment, but had quickly found unsettling after a few minutes. They way they seemed to peel back layers of herself, it went beyond the regular sort of leering boys did and she'd felt like a particular interesting piece of meat in front of a butcher.

She hadn't gone anywhere alone for three weeks after that. Thankfully he'd never shown his face again.

More than a few times Sansa had wondered if it was just bad luck or if her taste in men was just… awful, but there'd been enough decent mixed in with the bad that she hadn't given up yet.

Someday she would have what Robb and Tyene did, Sansa promised herself-

"Gods, he really is a creepy little shit, isn't he," Arya said, suddenly appearing in the seat next to her.

Nearly jumped out of her skin, but Sansa managed to bite back the shriek and only let out a small squeak in her surprise. It took a moment for her to regain full control of herself, to avoid screaming her head off at her sister.

"Seven hells Arya," she hissed finally once her heart raced rather than thundered. "You scared me half to death."

"Sorry, sorry," Arya said, her hands held up placatingly, though Sansa could tell she itched to roll her eyes.

A moment passed and her heart rate continued to fall back to something normal, something human. Her body calmed, and her emotions once again steadied Sansa looked back to her little sister and, following the line of her gaze, found Joffrey on the other end.

"Can't be more than, what? Nineteen," Arya said with a disgusted snort. "He's almost thirty."

"Twenty-nine," Sansa said.

Arya shot her a look and this time did roll her eyes, "Yeah, almost thirty."

It had just come out of her mouth. She hadn't been excusing him, had in fact been thinking the same thing only a few minutes ago, but it had somehow just slipped out somehow.

"I was thinking of sending her a message later, after," Sansa said. "But, he wasn't allowed a plus one, so I don't know where I'll get her info."

"If only someone had thought to warn you," Arya muttered under her breath and then, laughing, she said, "You should do it in front of him, that'd be fuckin' hilarious."

The nerve! As if she'd had any real notion of Joffrey's faults, the evil that he hid beneath the pretty face.

"Just walk right up to the two of them, and say; 'Sorry, dear, but did you know this golden shit is an abusive little asshole?'" Arya's voice rose in imitation, her head wiggling mockingly as she descended into a quiet laugh. "Gods can you imagine the look on his face? Bet that would wipe that stupid smirk off it quick."

And then what? Invite everyone in Westeros to wonder why Sansa Stark would accuse Joffrey Baratheon of something like that? Say they believed her, they'd just write a thousand pitying articles digging in to every pitfall and moment of their relatively brief relationship. And if they didn't? Well it would be much worse and ti would haunt her for the rest of her life.

Things like that could sink careers, and they work she did was too important to risk.

Arya never thought through the consequences of anything, always just barrelled on ahead with the first notion that came inter her head. Heedless of the damage she did to anything else.

"...would really work-" Arya was in the middle of saying, having clearly worked herself up to a steam. A cold pit settled in her stomach, if Sansa didn't stop her who knew what she would do.

"Oh, do shut the hells up," she said forcefully and slightly louder than she'd intended.

Some of the people the next table over glanced their way, but didn't look to really be paying attention.

"This is why I never told you anything," Sansa said quickly. "You could never keep yourself from spoiling things."

Arya's eyes went comically wide and her face pale, Sansa saw the way her throat worked suddenly. Then all at once her little sister was standing, chair toppling back behind her to clatter loudly to the floor and drawing more and more eyes towards the two of them. Little tremors ran up her arms in surges, hands flexing and relaxing in time, as she stared open mouthed at Sansa.

"You… you," was all Arya choked out as she stepped forward, her arms raising as if to shove at Sansa.

She halted, working her mouth in a familiar grimace of frustration. Arya's hands fell back to her side, she shook her head with a sudden violence that was startling and was brushing past with a single minded fury.

Before Sansa could react, Arya was gone, stomping away with glittering eyes.


	5. Arya & Sansa

Fuck Sansa!

A dull roaring fills Arya's ears, the noise of a hungry crowd waiting on the headline performance, and though her heart pounds there's nothing of the familiar excitement in it. Vision blurring again with every blink she stomps down the hall without paying attention to the people she passes or where she's going.

She wants to swing something heavy, wants to wrap her hands around a pale throat and just… squeeze, wants to… wants to. Wants to throw up, find a dark corner and just be. Alone.

Everything is too much in the moment. Too many people, too much light. Too much noise.

Arya's feet carry her even if her eyes can't guide her. No one gets in her way, though she can't exactly tell if there's actually anyone to be getting in her way at this point and it's only after several moments of quiet that she's able to blink away the blurriness. The rushing in her ears and the pounding in her head begins to subside enough that Arya feels in control again.

Fuck Sansa.

It's a vicious thought that rips through her head, fading after only a few seconds to be replaced by a pit of miserable disappointment.

Shit idea to try talking to her, probably extra stupid to make the topic of conversation Joffrey, though she still doesn't understand what exactly she said that set Sansa off. Probably out to have left it alone, but after bumping into her yesterday Arya felt shitty about, well everything, felt like maybe she should make an effort to patch things up a bit. Of course she's never been good with the whole, talking stuff, so of course it all went to fucking shit in about half a second.

Shit. Fuck.

Skipping out sounds like a great plan.

Take the train down to White Harbor tonight, get a flight back to Braavos for tomorrow morning, and get back to things that she can make fucking sense of. Leave everything another couple of years and they can both go right back to ignoring each other and keeping the peace. Robb'll probably be pissed and she was even kind of getting to like Tyene, but well they'll understand. Eventually. Or they won't.

Problem. How the fuck does she get back to Winterton tonight? Jon drove her, along with his mum and Rickon, but asking him will only invite questions.

And who the hells else is likely to leave the party to drive her over an hour away? No one. Hiding out for a few hours until someone is ready to beg off the whole shindig might work. So long as no one comes looking for her she'll be just fine and this'll all be nothing but a bad memory in a few hours. So long as no one-

"Arya!"

She wants to scream, doesn't, though what she does do is slam her head back against the wall a couple of times instead.

"Arya!"

Sansa's not quite shouting, which is good, means she doesn't want to draw attention anymore than Arya does. If she slips away now maybe, finds a dark corner to hide in, they won't see each other for years. Maybe when Bran gets married.

Except now that she's actually looking around, Arya isn't exactly sure where she is. The Manor was never exactly a familiar place for any of them, it had sat empty or been rented out for events for most of their life. Visits to it were infrequent and mostly only for larger celebrations.

In fact, she's not even sure exactly which direction she came from.

Part of her wants to turn and give Sansa the fight she's clearly looking for. Fighting had never seemed to do much good though, the few times they'd really gone each other over the last few years. They'd scream at each other for a few minutes, or maybe as much as an hour if they really got up to steam, shove each other and then one of them, usually Sansa, would stalk off in frustration.

In some ways their fights were less violent than they'd been when they were younger, Arya hadn't actually hit her sister with any real force since she was twelve.

Flight was better than fight, but still she didn't make a move to get away. Arya's feet seemed frozen to the spot or maybe it was just that she couldn't summon the energy to command them. Maybe if she took whatever insults Sansa had prepared in her search she could slink away in the aftermath, Arya had much better control over her temper these days.

So it was that Sansa found her leaning silently against the way as she rounded the corner.

"Arya!" she called, then her eyes found Arya's and she stopped short.

Silence stretched between them, thin and aching like a papercut ready to pull apart at the slightest movement. After only a moment Sansa gathered herself back up and strode forward once again, her long legs eating up the short distance between them until she loomed by Arya's side.

"What the hells was that?" she demanded, folding her arms across her chest.

Her heart hammered in her chest with the sudden urge to snap back, but Arya mastered it and breathed sharply through her nose, saying only, "Didn't want to be in there anymore."

"Yes, well you caused a scene," Sansa said.

"I-!" Arya started, but bit back her retort, and then ground out with some effort, "Just go back to the party Sansa. Leave me alone."

Arya could see that her sister was unsettled by her reply. Usually, when things got this far, they would have already been at each other's throats, and she was more than a little ashamed to say that she'd never tried much to hold herself back. Hitting back, metaphorically, always felt too good in the moment even if the regret wasn't usually long in following in the aftermath.

"You have to come back," Sansa started, then at Arya's answering and incredulous glare she abruptly switched tacts. "I won't take the blame for your tantrum."

Oh please, as if!

It had always been Arya on the receiving end of mother's entreaties to mend things after their fights, even before it had ever gotten so bad. Always her their father came to to beg her to make up with Sansa, to remind her that they were flesh and blood; his daughters for good or ill bound to each other forever. Nevermind the insults Sansa and her friends whispered at her or how she complained endlessly at having to go to any of Arya's games, sniffing at the hint of dirt and sweat.

"Not. My. Problem." She managed through a clenched jaw.

Sansa had never wanted anything to do with her. Hated everything that wasn't pretty and clean and quiet; none of which Arya would ever really be, not enough to satisfy.

"Ughh!" Her sister throwing up her hands. "You're so ridiculous! Honestly, Arya, just grow up already."

A twitch ran up her arm, the sudden desire to reach out and smack Sansa nearly overwhelming but instead she simply glared at her hard for a few moments and forced her limb to relax.

Forced herself to breath in, to let go.

What was the point, Sansa would never understand her, had never even tried.

Yelling, hitting, crying, none of it would change that.

So instead she turned away and started walking. Better to get away from her sister's presence than wait for the next needle and lose her cool, make the whole situation that much worse. Maybe she'd walk to the nearby town, get a ride from someone there. For sure she'd have to apologize to Robb and Tyene, but they'd have to prefer it to having her and Sansa make a scene.

"You are not walking away from me," came Sansa's voice and then she was standing in front of Arya, blocking her way.

Sort of.

For a moment it had sounded like mother, that edge of steel in her voice enough to bring Arya up short for long enough for them to meet each others eyes again.

"I am," was all she said in answer, pushing past her sister's futile efforts to stop her.

Sansa's hand pulled at her shoulders, but that too wasn't difficult to shake loose. What she didn't expect was the full body shove that nearly sent her stumbling forward onto her face, forcing Arya to catch herself on the nearest wall to stop a full faceplant. Harshing breathing came from behind her.

"What the hells is wrong with you!?" She shouted, rounding on her sister, arms already up defensively.

There was a wide-eyed, panicked look to Sansa's face, as if she could hardly believe she'd done it herself, that nearly set Arya off laughing. But it wasn't enough to overcome the anger still flowing through her.

"I am trying to get away from you!" Arya continued, shouting still as she faced off against her sister.

"You can't!" Sansa responded desperately.

Laughter seemed the only appropriate response to that, though it was a forced and fake sort of laugh that probably made her seem unhinged. Rather than continue the ridiculous back and forth farce Arya turned away again, determined this time not to be stopped, and started heading back in the direction she'd started.

Sansa hissed angrily behind her, "Arya."

Refusing to turn back, to be baited into any further arguing, she set her eyes forward and continued walking determinedly. Her strides her had taken her perhaps half a dozen feet forward when she was once again nearly forced off her feet, though this time she was pulled rather than pushed. Sansa had managed to drag her a couple more steps through a doorway before she'd wrenched her arm free again.

Glancing around, Arya found that they were in one of the various drawing rooms scattered all over the Manor; maybe she'd been in it once before, but it was difficult to tell when they'd come here so infrequently. It hardly mattered anyways.

Clearly the room had not been prepared for guests, as it was still mostly bare, save for a couple of chairs and a settee packed against the wall to one side and a rolled up carpet sat upright in the corner. None of which was important, but focusing on the room did stop her from immediately punching Sansa in her stupid face. Fine, if her sister wanted a fight then she'd give her one.

"I won't let you spoil everything I've worked so hard at with your ridiculous tantrum," Sansa was pacing in front of her, wringing her hands anxiously, with comically wide eyes. "You will turn right around and march yours-"

"Oh, Fuck! Right! Off!" Arya shouted, cutting off whatever had been about to spew forth from her mouth. "The only one spoiling anything right now, is you."

That seemed to bring her up short and Arya watched Sansa's deep blue eyes blink uncertainly at her with an expression like someone had just knocked her over the head with a pole. It barely lasted a moment though, soon enough her sister face was screwed up with fresh indignance.

"Nonsense, I was only trying to get you to calm down and return to the party," Sansa said as she crossed her arms again.

"I might have already done, if you'd left me alone," Arya shot back.

The snort she received in response said everything her sister thought of that. True, she'd been thinking of skipping out on the rest of the evening even before she'd known that Sansa had come after her, but she'd half talked herself out it too. Arya can admit, at least to herself, she'd have probably ended up returning to the party, avoided her sister for sure, but returned nonetheless.

"Just piss off already," Arya responded.

"Typical Arya," sneered Sansa, leveling a disdainful glare at her. "So quick to start fights, but you never stick around the face the consequences, do you?"

"I didn't start anything," she said. "You exploded at me for no reason, if anyone started anything it was you."

Sansa shook her head in disbelief, "Please, that snide little comment about someone warning me about Joffrey? Not exactly subtle."

"What?" Arya asked. Was that really what had set her off? "It was a stupid fucking joke."

"Ha ha, yes so funny," her sister said sarcastically. "Silly Sansa really didn't see how much of an arsehole Joffrey was, not like her brilliant little sister; 'Let's all point and laugh at how stupid she was, come on everyone!' "

"Wha-" Arya began.

"Seven bloody years, and you still won't stop gloating," Sansa said, barrelling right over Arya. "You can take your indignant spluttering and shove it!"

Sansa breathed heavy, her chest rising and falling as a pleased and triumphant expression spread across her space.

"I wasn't," Arya said hesitantly. "Or, I mean, I didn't mean to gloat."

Sure she'd have liked her sister to acknowledge that she'd been right about Joffrey all those years ago, but she hadn't been gloating. Had she?

"Of course," rolling her eyes, Sansa regarded her sister with a glower. "Dear little Arya never means harm by anything, 'you simply have to forgive her, she just got a bit carried away.' "

There was such a sharp sting in her words, so much anger, that Arya's heart started to beat thunderously as a flush of heat wormed its way up her back to nestle at the nape of her neck.

"Gods, I never understood how Robb or Jon could stand you always being underfoot," Sansa continued, her cheeks tingeing with the lightest shade of red. "Chasing after them like some half-feral little animal, getting in the way at every opportunity."

Something stuck in her throat, so thick and heavy that it seemed to knot her tongue and pull at her insides and wouldn't hardly let her breath past it. Things suddenly felt distant as if she'd receded a thousand miles down a narrow tunnel within herself, like she was all of a sudden looking at the world from on high. Nothing would make any sound move past the leaden weight in her mouth and throat.

Her hands clutched at the fabric of her dress, pressing tighter in against herself as she clung desperately to something she couldn't name; eyes burning at the back of her skull.

"Everything you touch, you spoil. How is it that you're my sister, my own blood?" Sansa's eyes were wild dancing things that seemed barely to see Arya at all as she continued to rant, "Savage little creature that you are, running roughshod over everything. I can't stand you, I can't stand you, I can't stand you! Better if you'd never come at all."

It was nothing she hadn't heard her sister say before, but usually by the time they got this far Arya was screaming just as loud; anger burning through her like ice, sharpening her focus down to nothing. Why was now different? Perhaps because when she'd sat down next to Sansa in the ballroom Arya had been trying to make nice, not well perhaps and certainly not with any real forethought, but trying all the same. She hadn't been needling, testing the waters to see how far she could push or where they stood, not as she had before.

Did so little really make such a difference? Evidently.

No retort appeared on her lips and no sound slipped past them no matter how hard Arya tried to make it. Though what she was trying to force past she didn't know, all she knew was that being unable was worse than anything else at this point; she'd never felt so small, like a shriveled chunk of meat left out in the sun to rot. She felt hot and cold all over all at once as if with a fever, her stomached eating away at itself painfully.

Nothing would move her, even though all she wanted to do was to curl into a ball and bury herself in the darkest corner of the room, press knees to ears and pretend the world did not exist. That Sansa did not exist. Her body betrayed her unwillingly, all that latent energy pooling until it erupt like an explosion as an involuntary jump of her muscles.

"Hic- !"

Wrapping her arms tightly around herself, squeezing as if it might force her body to stop, Arya wasn't conscious of the way her feet seemed to move on their own; dragging her around the room aimlessly.

"Hic- !"

Tears pooled in her eyes and blurred her vision. Not that it mattered, she wasn't truly seeing in the moment anyways, could only rage silently at the way her body continued to act in ways Arya didn't want it too as her mouth opened every few moments to emit another hiccup.

"Hic- !"

"Arya…" Sansa's voice was suddenly soft and uncertain.

*  
*

Seeing her sister cry wasn't exactly new, but it had been years. And they'd always been a child's tears brought on by what had seemed then to be silly things; being denied permission to go haring off wildly, or made to attend some event, or when she was punished for making one mess or another. Hardly reasons likely to evoke sympathy in Sansa, who'd more than once been scolded for things wholly of Arya's own doing.

This though was the first time she'd ever seen her sister cry as an adult; fierce, angry Arya was more likely to scream back insults of her own than turn into an incoherent mess at Sansa's words. It was unsettling, to see her look so lost in that moment.

So alone.

Nearly as soon as the words had been out of her mouth she'd already begun to regret them. Even before this. They were unfair, she knew, for as much as she'd despaired of her sister's energy when they were younger she also been more than a little jealous of it. Everything physical seemed to come to Arya with a naturalness that had always eluded Sansa; and people always spoke of her skills admiringly, whether it was swimming, basketball, track, or rugby.

Sansa had always made a effort to look right, act proper, hold herself the same way she saw her mother doing; fearing all the while that she would fail and others would look at her and see only the child. Forgetting the woman she was. Arya feared nothing, did nothing according to anyone else's wishes and suffered near enough to no repercussions for it. None of which was any of her fault perhaps, but it had still been aggravating.

Truthfully she'd thought she left all those silly girlhood resentments behind long ago, made her peace with their differences and her own place in the world. But maybe not, she'd trotted out the same complaints enough in their fights over the years.

It was not as if everything was on Sansa though, Arya had often been cruel in her own ways. Mocking all the things she liked and cherished with stinging barbs and sarcastic imitation, though perhaps now was not the time to press on that.

"Arya," she started again, softening her voice though it came out slightly scratchy. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean-"

"I should go," Arya muttered into the empty air, seemingly not having heard Sansa at all.

"What? No, you can't just leave Arya," she said, certain that she could feel something slipping from her grasp..

"Why not?" she's startled by the vehemence behind the question, though it seems half not a question at all and more like an accusation, a sense only reinforced by what follows. "That's what you always wanted right, me gone? Nice neat ordered life without a little sister to spoil anything."

Shame settles in Sansa's stomach at that, she'd said near as much not moments before and they've never exactly been close as siblings, so why shouldn't Arya believe it.

"That's not true," she begins. "I do love you, you're my sister Arya, I would never wish you gone. Not truly. It's only ever anger and frustration that makes me say those things and whatever happens we will always be sisters, nothing changes that."

For a few moments there's nothing but silence between them, Arya's heavy breathing and the distant sounds of the party still on going. She seems calmer now, her breaths more even and less ragged, but there's still a look to her eyes that Sansa doesn't entirely understand; it's not exactly anger but it's also not sadness.

"Joffrey did," Arya said finally.

The seeming incongruity was so great that Sansa just stared at her for a long moment, uncertain at the meaning of the apparent switch in conversation. While Joffrey may have been part of the start of the argument, she truly doesn't see how he fits in with the rest; he's always been a sore spot between them, but things only got so bad after she'd broken up with him. It doesn't make a lick of sense.

"You disappeared into him when you started dating; always Joffrey this and Joffrey that, and no matter how much I told you he was a prig, you never listened," Arya said.

It's embarrassing to admit, but true, when she first met him she was more than a bit of a simpering idiot and certainly couldn't see his flaws at first. Complaining of Sansa not listening to her is hardly fair, Arya certainly didn't pay much attention to any of hers at the time.

"I told you and told you and told you a hundred times, but he was always 'darling Joffrey, sweetest Joffrey' who was so handsome and smart and knew sooo much. And then… and then… " There's a tinge of hysteria to Arya's voice now, and a touch of uncertainty. "Two weeks I was home and you didn't even tell me yourself! Rickon sat me down!"

Oh.

Had this been part of it the entire time? Sansa's never seen Arya like this, certainly not then and not in the years since; has never once considered that she might've wanted something more from Sansa. It might be that Arya herself didn't know.

They'd never got along as kids. Sansa can well imagine feeling left out from her sister's life, she wished often enough that Arya were more like her, but then she was older and with friends long before Arya even seemed like a real person in her life. Being Robb's little sister was different, for all sorts of reasons, and so she can't quite imagine what being hers was like.

"Why didn't you tell me," Arya's voice is small again, she's clearly exhausted, but there's an undercurrent of defensive anger too.

Sansa breathes deeply, once, twice, three times. It's only after the third breath that she feels settled enough to offer anything in response and even then the words seem to stick in her throat. Even years later it's hard to talk about her experience with Joffrey, and maybe that itself should have been a clue that it wasn't behind her, that she was still carrying forward way too many things from then.

Dealing with it all now is impossible though, but she can deal with this. A bit at least.

"I was afraid," she said unsteadily. "And ashamed for being fooled. But it was over and everyone knew, so it hardly seemed to matter whether I told you myself or not, and I thought… I thought you'd mock me."

Ducking her head at the last part Sansa feels another flush of shame for thinking so ill of Arya at that age, it was the height of unfairness not to at least give her the benefit of the doubt. Especially about something so serious, for all her faults Arya had never been cavalier about their family's safety.

"Unfair of me I know, but-" she's just starting to say when arms suddenly wrap around her shoulders and Arya's head nestles suddenly in the crook of her neck; the shaved portion of her head scratchy at Sansa's jaw.

Slowly she wraps her own arms around Arya, the two of them standing there in silence for several minutes just holding each other. It's the closest the two of them have been in years and certainly the most honest they've been with each other in much longer, it's the first time Sansa's ever felt like a conversation between them has actually been productive.

"I'm sorry," Arya mumbles against her and then, pulling back just slightly to look her fully in the eyes, "You should have been able to trust me."

Pulling the younger woman back into the hug, Sansa gives her a squeeze, "And I'm sorry that I ever made you feel like that. At least some good came from Joffrey," Sansa pauses, considering. "Eventually."

Arya laughs for a several moments against her, then stills, and Sansa thinks she'll be content to just stand there with her for a while longer but Arya pulls back and there's a gleam in her eyes she hasn't seen for a long time.

"I have an idea," is what she says.

There's something wicked in that phrase, a bit vicious, and loving too. Uncertainty wars within her, but after a moment she decides to give in; whatever notion Arya has concocted isn't like to be aimed at her. And if they're going to work again, Sansa will have to give at least a little bit.

Besides it might even be fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here were are at the end of this journey. I hope you've enjoyed it.
> 
> There's more I want to explore but this is how this portion of the tale ends. Please tell me what you think.


End file.
